the Two Good Doctors
by Shadoling
Summary: Don't worry..I'm typing the second chapter of my Angel fic as we speak, those who were interested. This story was created as an entry for a horror contrast...think of it as Dr. Jekyll meets Dr. Frankenstein...don't tell me you haven't wondered what would


The quietness of the gazebo did not reflect the twitching, jittering nerves that flooded through the thin, cobalt-blue veins of a young doctor. His face was angular, gaunt, weathered despite his youthful years, but it was the eyes that could draw a person in, rather than these seemingly meaningless details. Those eyes were clear and sparkling as the waters that lapped around the gazebo's gardens, yet harbored a shadowy substance that pooled a feeling of greatest remorse in the depths of those shining orbs. He looked like a man who had suffered through a war, yet he sat with his back straight, for the time being, resisting the urge to give in to his awkward, gangly limbs and slouch as he normally did. His thick mop of red curls was barely contained under the black top hat he wore, and the richness of the maroon fabric, created in plush velvet, waistcoat did not hide the skinniness of his midsection.

He had a cup of tea in front of him, well, needless to say, the tea had long ago lost its steam. Victor was late, as usual, which is one of the many countless reasons that the young doctor had given up on counting on him to show. So of course he did not drink, _would_ not, rather, out of politeness and the rigidness of his unending, English traditions.

A light rain had fallen earlier, sprinkling the grassy path to the gazebo in the lake with crystal teardrops. The childish urge to kick such things in frustration did not elude the doctor, nor did the whimsy of simply boarding a rowboat to tour around the lake.

But he was here on business, and that business was shortly approaching.

A broad-shouldered, handsome man, with evenly-cut, slick black hair, a hawkish nose, and high cheekbones, was striding forward through the grass. A labcoat, white, yet stained so many times over, it was a bit hard to say what the original color was, clung to his ankles before billowing in the wind, as if waving farewell to a freedom it once possessed. The man's steady, dark gaze was dancing as it caught hold of the doctor's, and the barrel-chested, middle-aged gentleman called out

jovially,   
"Henry! Henry, my old boy, wherever have you been hiding all this time!"

Henry Jekyll, looking sour, lowered the hand he had brought up to tug on his tophat in greeting, onto the table.

"If you recall, Victor," Dr. Jekyll said stiffly, "It was I who arranged our meeting."

Victor Frankenstein, slowing his stride, blinked owlishly at Jekyll, his mouth partially parted, agape in a certain, silent appeal.

"Oh, Henry," he managed to blurt out, coloring around the facial regions, "Do forgive me--my studies--it's incredible! I mean, have you heard...?" He stopped abruptly in his excited babble to view the much-needed reproachful glare Henry gave him.

"To put it shortly, Victor, I have read your articles in the papers. Bringing creatures to life, defeating death. You are playing god."

"You wouldn't understand," Victor muttered, sidling into the gazebo to slowly seat himself across from his old friend and former pupil. He lifted Henry's teacup, causing Henry to twitch, and took a sip, shutting his eyes. Almost immediately, he made an amusing gagging sound, and Henry Jekyll made no move to hide the satisfied smirk on his face when Victor drank the lukewarm, bitter tea.

"Is it not to your liking, Victor?" Henry said with an almost sickening sweetness. "Dear me. If you'd arrived, oh, let us say, an hour or so ago, this sort of thing might not have happened. You see, it was an hour ago, that the tea was warm, and its Earl Grey taste less intense."

"You're just being sour because I stood you up those few other times in London Square."

"You make it sound as though we are courting," Henry laughed with disgust.

"Aren't we?" Victor countered coolly, folding his hands in his lap. Henry paused, viewing Victor with wariness. Victor sat back smugly, folding his hands in his lap.

"We are courting _ideas_ in our field of work, my fellow doctor. We cannot afford to be at odds with one another if we plan to share ideas. Now tell me...what is it you have been so eager to press upon me?"

"First, Victor," Henry said, quietly, in jest, "First why work has become so...attached to you?"

Victor, looking down, suddenly realized his labcoat. He cursed faintly.

"Damn, never mind that now, man, just tell me what this article of alchemy is you seem so proud off."

Jekyll's face split into a boyish, eager grin, and reaching around his seat, the doctor lifted an old, worn-looking case. It was a plain thing, this case, with a busted silver buckle, tarnished over time to the point of staining. As he lifted gentle, tapered fingers to tug the lid open, the contents rattled and clinked like the shaking of bones.

He brought the case open, revealing several empty spaces, but even moreso noticeable, bottles. Just small bottles, perchance the size of a tonic bottle, filled to the brim with a sort of green, glowing liquid, as though fireflies had been melted down to make a substance unlike any Victor had laid eyes on. He reached out a curious finger, in attempt to touch it, and Henry slammed the lid shut. Victor, snatching his hand away but barely, shot Henry a surprised, hurt look.

"What was that for?"

"You don't know what it does yet." Henry said softly. "It creates an escape, Victor. It's much better than the common urchin's opium or dried pipe weed. It creates a direct seperation from good and evil. It's addictive, I will give it that, but hardly dangerous. It's a simple matter of balancing the mind. I am all about the mind, Victor, in my heart, I know the mind...because it is the psyche that determines what we do, therefore I must change the psyche..."

"You'd be better off changing iron into gold," Victor scoffed. "My _creations,_ on the other hand, are absolutely what Parliament needs right now! They are obedient, strong, better so than any other man, for reanimated, they cannot die again, not ever. They would be the perfect soldiers, to the finest--"

"When you say, that they 'are', Victor, you do mean that they already, in fact, exist?" Henry said cooly, narrowing his eyes. "Or perhaps you are merely thinking ahead, with your wild dreams, as usual? Parliament! In all honesty. _My_ 'creation' will change _you_ first. Only when you change yourself can you change the world."

"Bah!" Victor snapped, losing patience already. "What if I do not wish to change? I feel fine the way I am. All I need is up here--" he rapped on the side of his skull,

"And the tools of my trade. Electricity. Power. And creativity."

"Then we are at fault," Hissed Henry softly, tipping his hand over his tea, before raising the teacup to his lips. It was cold, by now, but there was a reason for his drinking. And Victor seemed suspicious of it, perhaps, partially, because of Henry's already shady antics.

"What was that you slipped in, my good friend?"

"A relief for this aching cough London has given me," Henry replied smoothly. "The smog has quite coated my lungs. Now I ask you again, for the last time, my fellow doctor..." he pushed the case nearer, tempting Victor, to the other's hand. "Are we at an agreement? For fourteen pounds a case..."

"Fourteen pounds!" Victor sputtered, aghast--

"A man can change the world."

It was a terse moment. Victor's dark eyes roved first over Henry's eager, twisted gaunt face, before falling to the falsely innocent glow of the bottles, which seemed to...pulsate in his sight.

"...No, Henry." He said firmly, slowly getting to his feet. "You may be a man of the mind, but I am a man of science. I choose what I do because it is logical to me. Your ideas lack sense and progress and therefore are of no more use to me. I bid you good day."

"It appears," Henry said loudly, rising as well to rest a hand on the table, "That we are no longer 'friends', are we, _Victor?_" The name was thrown out scornfully.  
Victor, walking towards the park, paused, his back to Jekyll.

"...No." he said softly. "No, we aren't friends anymore."

Jekyll glared after the other man, clenching a hand that, a moment before, had been slender, but was now large, and slightly corrupted, as though the flesh sought to stretch itself, before sliding that hand into his pocket.

"So be it." He muttered gutturally, a glitter of malevolence in his eyes, before, doffing his tophat, the young doctor rose, and glided away into the temporary sunshine of an English day...


End file.
